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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23983270">would you kiss me if i asked you to</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/fenwitch/pseuds/fenwitch'>fenwitch</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>An Ember in the Ashes - Sabaa Tahir</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>A Reaper at the Gates time frame, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, One Shot, Unresolved Sexual Tension, helene gets violence but not romance</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 19:46:51</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,778</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23983270</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/fenwitch/pseuds/fenwitch</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Helene is tired; Avitas Harper takes care of her. This story takes place some time during A Reaper at the Gates during the siege of Antium.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Helene Aquilla/Avitas Harper</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>38</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>would you kiss me if i asked you to</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Blood Shrike,” a voice echoes from across the room.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> An errant breeze runs through and Helene is now half-awake, head propped on her hand, a map of Antium unfurled across her desk.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She looks up, blinking away the sleepiness. “Report, Harper.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> The Mask is standing an appropriate distance from her, <em>always appropriate, </em>and watching her expressionlessly.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “You fell asleep,” he says.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Did you come here to report the obvious?” Helene grits out as she stands (<em>ten hells, everything hurts</em>) and stretches herself, cat-like. It is near-dark outside. And quiet.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “No, Blood Shrike,” Harper responds. He opens his mouth as if to say something, but then stops. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She lifts a brow. <em>Well, go on then. </em></span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “The Karkaun assault has lulled. Scouts report that they are selecting a new batch of sacrifices.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>How quaint.</em></span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “We expect the assault to begin again at dawn—“</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Then I will do some reconnaissance, while they are occupied. Prepare my—”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “You are tired, Blood Shrike,” says Harper. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>And you interrupted my sleep to tell me so, you fool. </em>“If you make any more obvious statements I will fling you from this tower, Avitas.” She can never figure out whether to call him by his damned first name or last name. It doesn’t matter anyway.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Harper looks down at his boots and then up again, a sly look in his eyes. The look is gone the next second.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I await your orders, sir.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> The Blood Shrike pauses, her hands tensed against the table. Then she yawns.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Harper has the good graces to remain silent.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Tell the generals to rest until dawn,” she says. Harper tips his head in acknowledgement.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Once he leaves, Helene sinks back into the wooden chair, which provides about as much comfort as an Augur’s embrace, and lets out a groan. She catalogues at least three fractured toes, bruised ribs, a strained left shoulder, and likely a sprained right ankle. She lifts one leg up onto the table gingerly.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> To her surprise, Harper comes back a quarter of an hour later with a goblet and a bottle of wine, setting it on the desk, along with a full water-skin. He has also magicked a loaf of bread and piece of cheese from somewhere and sets them on the table.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I thought you might be hungry,” he says. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>A bloody picnic in the middle of a battle?</em></span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Helene almost comments but instead says, “pull up a chair.” He hesitates, and then drags one over. She hands him the goblet, fills it, and then takes the bottle for herself. A long swig of the warm, plummy stuff sends a dulling heat through her. Helene sets down the bottle to find Harper watching her, his cup untouched. She wipes her hand across her mouth and tears off a chunk of bread.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Helene should be doing many things right now. Visiting Livvy. Consoling her troops. Scouting the Karkuan camp. Helping with the city’s evacuation. Instead, she is drinking a bottle of Gens Illustria vintage with Avitas Harper. Helene almost laughs, but it would hurt. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She has only read about these moments in military diaries, how during war the world goes mad and then for short times it goes blank like a sea at slack water. When time is neither here nor there, when the routine of sleep, and meals, and custom have lost all meaning in the face of slaughter and all you’re left with is silent and numb spaces between people and strange reconstructions of normality. Helene takes another drink.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Harper still hasn’t touched his goblet, but is instead looking at his hands folded between his legs. <em>Is he waiting for my permission? </em>But then again she cannot recall a time she ever saw him drink. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> When she finishes a quarter of the bottle, Helene vaguely wonders what would happen if she were to slip out of her chair and straddle his lap, and press her mouth to that golden stretch of his neck.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>Sir? </em>echoes in Helene’s head and she takes another drink for good measure to hide her face. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> When she sets down the bottle again, Harper is fading in his seat, head swooning to his chest and lashes flickering darkly over the silver of his mask. His shoulders are still squared against the back of the chair and hands resting between his legs as if still at attention. Helene notices his lower lip is cut and swollen.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Then he’s deeply asleep. Pulled into some undertow of exhaustion. He breathes out steadily, like a mercator diver. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She stands (<em>unsteadily, when did Helene become so easily affected by alcohol?),</em> rips off another piece of bread and some cheese, and then crosses over to him, kneeling between his legs. She’s not really thinking at all as she chews, humming, healing, running her hand lightly over his split lip, a small cut near his jaw, a set of bruises near his jugular, and then along his hands where she eases and smoothes the tenseness along his fingers, along the swell of his palms. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> When she’s done, Helene is too tired to move, and rests her head against his thigh, still humming. </span>
</p><p class="p2"><br/>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">*       *       *</span>
</p><p class="p2"><br/>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She jerks awake when her pillow shifts suddenly, and looks up blearily, frowning. “Stop moving,” she huffs, and closes her eyes again.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “H—Shrike,” says the pillow. Something flutters near her ear. “You should sleep in your bed,” the voice murmurs.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “<em>You</em> should sleep in my bed…,” Helene slurs. A beat, then she’s airborne, head cushioned into someone’s neck. Their chest is rumbling, as if with silent laughter. She nestles into the sudden warmth. The warmth shifts and she winces from the twinge in her ribs.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “You’re injured,” the voice says. <em>Harper.</em></span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Helene cannot be bothered to point out his third obvious statement of the evening. She drifts back asleep again, only to rouse once set down into something soft. A match strikes and a a flame shivers to life.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Shrike, it will be more comfortable if you take off your armor.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She hums in response. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Can I help you?” Harper asks. Helene waves her hand, <em>get on with it. </em></span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He undoes her greaves first, then bracers, and then moves onto her shoulder plates, loosening the ties along her front. He lifts her gently forward and removes the breastplate. His movements are methodical, measured. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Helene sucks in a breath as her ribs twinge again and blinks her eyes open. “Got hit by club,” she says. She lifts up her shirt revealing a sweep of mottled purple and red. She hears Harper’s intake of breath.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I have a balm in the drawer over there,” Helene says. Harper nods and fetches it, then opens the jar. A sharp and spiced scent fills the room. Helene lifts her shirt again and tucks it under her chin, holding out her hand for the tin. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “May I?” he asks. Helene feels herself flush, <em>thank skies for the mask, </em>but nods for him to continue.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He dips his fingers in and then gently strokes along her ribs. <em>Ten hells</em>. The sensation of his fingers against her skin sends a sparkling sensation shimmering up and down her spine. Her mind spins out, dangerously. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Do you believe this is a part of your duty?” The words spill unbidden from her lips. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Harper pauses and looks up at her. His eyes are swallowed by darkness.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “My duty, sir?” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “To the empire.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “If this is what the Shrike requires,” he says. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Would you do anything if the Shrike requires it?” <em>Why is your voice so damn breathy Helene?</em></span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Harper pauses and now she sees a silent amusement and warning in his expression.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I’m sorry—,” Helene starts. <em>He’s already touching you with your shirt half off for skies sake. </em></span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I am the one who should apologize, Shrike,” says Harper, hand pausing over her rib cage. “I tortured you,” he says, throat working. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>Ah.</em></span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “That was your duty, to interrogate me,” Helene responds automatically. “It was nothing personal.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I tortured you, for <em>days, </em>on the orders of a traitor to the empire,” Harper chokes. His eyes are wet as he looks up at her. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “You didn’t know—“</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I was following and not thinking, Shrike,” he interrupts. “Please know, I regret those actions every day.“ He pauses. “You are a good leader, Shrike. You have integrity. And for that reason I bind my honor, my duty, and my life to serving you.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> His eyes meet hers. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Harper—I—thank you,” she stumbles over her words, overwhelmed, distracted by the feeling of his hand, warm, fitting the curve of her waist. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “You need only tell me what you want,” his eyes meet hers, “and I will do my best to serve you.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> His hand has come to rest above her hip, thumb soothing circles there. The motion is a question, an offer. Helene grows hot. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> How easy it would be to hook her legs over his shoulders and draw him towards her, runher hand up the nape of his neck. <em>I should scold him for insubordination</em>. Instead, Helene draws her hand under his jaw, feels his pulse fluttering at the juncture with his neck as her thumb sweeps under his bottom lip. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> In a wild moment that Helene will not acknowledge in the morning, she feels she wants to kiss him, and not out of lust or pity, but because she wants to bridge some impossible distance between them that is opening, a chasm, and she knows that it will not heal anything but maybe a thousand thousand of them, tenderly, everywhere across his face like rain, might make a difference. And resounding in her head, a small voice, <em>maybe he cares for you. </em>But she pushes that away too because that would mean <em>this</em> (<em>the hand, warm on her hip</em>) is an honest offer stripped of rank or duty or servitude or guilt and simply rooted in the fact that he wanted her, Helene. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> But neither Helene nor the Blood Shrike knows how to bridge distances. She can wield a sword and kill a man in a hundred different ways. She does not know how to deal with the tenderness of his expression, the softness of his mouth. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She drops her hand from his face and removes his hand from her hip, placing it on the bed. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Harper, I—“ She bites her lip, unsure of how to continue. He searches her face for a moment, then squeezes her hand briefly before standing up. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “There are a couple of hours still until dawn, Shrike. Get some rest.” He turns and walks towards the door. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Get some rest too, Harper,” she murmurs. He turns in the doorway and gives a small nod before closing it shut. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>Come back, </em>she thinks.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>So i wrote this fic years ago (apologies if references etc. don't make sense...I don't remember details of the book anymore lmao), but figured I'd post it for u quarantine queens~ </p><p>Please stay healthy and safe during this time &lt;3</p></blockquote></div></div>
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